


For Her

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: Memori Week [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Canon Compliant, F/M, Oh my god so much angst, basically i watched a bunch of proposal videos and watched this while bitter and sad, which is about right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 04:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Memori Appreciation Week: Day Three: Breakup (Canonverse)Murphy and Emori have been fighting more often than not recently. This time, he might've blown it. But then she comes back. But then he has to choose...So they stood there, wrapped in each other, barely breathing, his whispered apologies pouring out of him, and her clenching her arms around him.At one point, he realized this was the longest they’d held each other in probably a month. That his body might remember her, but then it didn’t. He thought, then, about what space had done to them. How recycled air had made their lungs shallow and how they only ever smelled the same, sterile and kept. How freckles faded and hair lightened, and thinned. Hell, even gravity was simulated, what other forces were subverted up here.Emori turned her face, and he didn’t think anything of it, but then she gave a little sniff. And then another. And then when she pulled back, his shirt was damp and so was her face, and panic settled over him because this was good, they were good, they had to be, only she wasn’t.





	For Her

He’d spent the day in one of the old holding cells on the other side of the ship. 

Pounded his fists against unforgiving walls, welcoming the bruises as they formed and the blood that was a reminder that his heart was beating. 

He always seemed to forget that when he and Emori fought. 

He’d hate the words as the ripped out of them, hated the flinch in her eyes and the sharp intake of breath that told him just how low he’d sunk. Hated the way her lips would tighten as she responded, how she pressed them together till she drew blood, rather than let him see her tremble. Hated that there was nothing he could do to take them back, to undo them, to tell her they were all lies. Hated that words were quick and ready when he was yelling, but nowhere to be found when he’d stopped.

Silence had hung heavy between them.  

And then she’d clamped her mouth shut, reached behind her for a pillow, and brushed past him without a sound. He’d heard the sharp knock on Raven’s door, and her expression must’ve been telling, because it closed without a word exchanged. 

He had skipped breakfast. 

It wasn’t like he could eat, not with shame curling in his stomach the way it was. Guilt left no room for appetite. 

Lunch, too. 

He wondered if he were hungry enough for long enough, he could focus on something other than the things he’d said that he didn’t mean. 

So he didn’t sneak back to their room until late in the afternoon, knowing he’d have to put in an appearance at some point, but hoping to delay the inevitable.

He didn’t expect her to be waiting for him. 

Emori was perched on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling off the edge of it, her back stiff. When he opened the door, the swinging motion of her legs stilled, and she took a steadying breath. 

She didn’t say anything. 

Murphy closed the door behind him, the metal clanging of it echoing around the room. He leaned against it when he did, not sure if he should go to her or not. He made himself meet her eyes though, uncertain and scared of what he’d find there. 

The air was thick between them. Memories and words, twisted expressions and twisted hearts; they’d been fighting a lot more recently, but last night had been the worst by far. 

Just as he was about to say something, her eyes dropped, landed on his hands and widened. He heard her sharp intake of breath and mentally cursed himself, wishing he’d remembered to keep them behind his back. Before he knew it, she was off the bed, crossing the room to him quickly, almost involuntarily moving because of her concern. 

Of course, she stopped just in front of him, when her mind caught up with her, reminding her that maybe she shouldn’t. She wavered, her own hands limp at her side, like she wanted to reach for him, but was holding herself back. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t touch me either,” he said, voice laced with acidity. 

No self-pity though. 

How could he feel bad for himself when he’d hurt her like he had? His hands would heal, and he always worried that the wounds from his words might not. 

Like it was a challenge, Emori reached for him. 

He jumped when her fingers touched his wrist, carefully lifting his hands and the tips of her fingers ghosting over the marks on his knuckles. She still didn’t say anything, her touch light and almost contemplative. 

Finally she sighed. “You know, this,” she said, lifting his hand slightly, “doesn’t fix anything.”

Of course he knew that. 

He also knew that when he tried to fix things, he broke them further. This way, at least the only thing that broke was him. 

“Yeah,” he said noncommittally. 

She dropped his hand. 

“Seriously, John?  _ Yeah _ ? That’s what you can say?”

And that was about right, because even when he wasn’t doing anything, he still managed to do something wrong. 

“If I say  _ I’m sorry _ it sounds hollow, and—” he began, but Emori took a step away from him like she needed the space. 

“So, what,” her eyes flashed, “you don’t say it at all?”

“I just,” Murphy clenched his fists, not sure what at all he meant to say, “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s a theme isn’t it,” Emori said quietly, her jaw tight as her eyes fell.

And what was there to say to that?

He stared at the edge of her collar and she stared at the tip of his chin for a long time, refusing to look at each other and wishing they could. 

“What are we doing, John?” she asked in a small voice, and he heard it in every cell in his body. 

Damned if he knew. 

When they’d come in to space, they’d been a sure thing. She’d been his and he’d been hers. Then things had shifted, and he didn’t know when or how, but suddenly he’d been unsure. Not of her for him and him for her. What if she deserved better? Of course she did, but what if she didn’t get it because he’d dragged her to space with him?

That was the first fight. 

The second was about how much time she was spending trying to learn how to talk to a computer, and get it to speak back to her. 

The third was when she figured it out, and tried to teach him. 

He’d lost count around the fourteenth time; it was all the same pattern anyways. Emori would be excited, he’d be wary, she’d be hurt, he’d be defensive. Then he’d say something too quickly and he’d regret it immediately, but he could never undo it. And they circled, and circled, and circled and now they were here.   

Emori never cried, not from pain anyways; her eyes were always clear and her face set. Murphy saved his tears for solitude, but she always saw the remnants of them, and they both knew. Knew that, yet again, she was stronger. 

But here, now, she sighed, something that sounded suspiciously shaky and Murphy couldn’t take it. He stepped forward and drew her into his arms and she went, automatically. They fit each other like a memory, his arms knotting around her shoulders and her hands pressing into the small of his back. She turned her face into his chest and he rested his head on top of her hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words tripping out of him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He should’ve said them the instant he felt them, last night. When he stepped back into the room, or when she inspected his hand, the crease on her forehead pronounced with worry. 

He felt her shaking her head against his chest and he wasn’t sure what that meant, but then her arms tightened, and that had to be good, right? They had to be okay. 

So they stood there, wrapped in each other, barely breathing, his whispered apologies pouring out of him, and her clenching her arms around him. 

At one point, he realized this was the longest they’d held each other in probably a month. That his body might remember her, but then it didn’t. He thought, then, about what space had done to them. How recycled air had made their lungs shallow and how they only ever smelled the same, sterile and kept. How freckles faded and hair lightened, and thinned. Hell, even gravity was simulated, what other forces were subverted up here.  

Emori turned her face, and he didn’t think anything of it, but then she gave a little sniff. And then another. And then when she pulled back, his shirt was damp and so was her face, and panic settled over him because this was good, they were good, they had to be, only she wasn’t. 

“Talk to me,” he said quietly, bending and lifting a hand to her cheek, brushing away the tears that were there. Tears he barely recognized and maybe that was another secret that space had kept, the feeling of her pain on his fingers. 

Emori ducked her head, hiding, her own hand lifting to wipe at her face. When her eyes met his again, Murphy thought that this was what it had been like for his father, when the airlock had opened. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make sense of anything, could only stare at her, into her eyes that weren’t sad or hurt, just resigned. 

She swallowed sharply, lifting her chin a bit and her mouth opened a couple of times before the words finally came out. “I can’t do this, John.”

Five words. 

Five syllable. 

Fifteen letters, if he counted, which he would. 

Every day, for the next six months.

When he couldn’t sleep, when he couldn’t think, when he couldn’t remember what his mother looked like before his father was floated, when the only thing he could see when he blinked was Charlotte falling, when he couldn’t remember whose noose was around whose neck, in every moment, he could hear her voice and see her face when she said those words. 

In that moment, they didn’t seem real, though. 

They couldn’t be real, hanging in the air like a clothesline or guillotined heads, like something you’d hear and not think anything of, or something that would mean the world had ended. 

His had. 

She didn’t look away, just stood there, waiting. 

For a fight, he realized absently, for him to beg her, to make her stay. 

_ What for _ , a voice whispered in the back of his skull, cruel and vicious with accuracy. What for indeed. 

So she could be dragged down by someone who could barely spell in the language he was raised speaking, when she was creating new words with Monty and Raven? So she could look at him with well-intentioned pity? So she could distance herself from everyone else aboard this ship who now saw her intellect, her liveliness, her softness? So she could continue to be hurt by words that he didn’t mean?

_ What _ , the voice whispered,  _ for you? _

And he couldn’t do it. 

Wouldn’t fight her for them, if the prize was him. 

Emori was still waiting.

Her eyes had lost some of their resolve, and something flared up inside of him. A spark of hope, ignited deep in his chest. She wasn’t sure, she might stay, he could convince her. 

And then. 

And then over that spark loomed a tidal wave. It was cold and it was certain but it was true, and Murphy held his breath and let it wash over him. Pushed out the fire, let ice take its place, stared at the woman he loved and told himself that she was worth it. 

She was worth him. 

Because that doubt in her eyes meant she’d stay. Meant she’d keep herself chained to him, let herself be hurt again and again, by him. And maybe he could love her like he couldn’t love himself, and maybe there was healing for both of them, but if he could break a little longer and a little deeper if it meant she’d be free, then he would take it. 

Take anything. 

So he pulled his hand from her cheek, stepped away from her. Looked down at the red on his hands rather than the hurt ripping across her face. Didn’t say a word, didn’t trust himself to, just walked over to the door and opened it. Held it. 

Emori hesitated. 

She hesitated, and he almost caved. Almost ran back to her, whispered a million more apologies into her hair, told her that it was all for her, that all he ever wanted was the best for her, and that she should stay, please stay, please stay.

_ For you? _ the voice whispered, and he clenched his jaw. He wasn’t worth it. The tears on her face, the pain in her eyes, the way she wanted him to fight for her. The fact that she still clung to what they’d had on the ground, a lifetime and an apocalypse ago. 

He held his tongue then, for all the times he hadn’t. 

And when she brushed by him this time, it took every ounce of self control to not reach for her. Sink to his knees in front of her, beg her, plead with her. So he didn’t look. Held his breath and his ground and stared at the door frame opposite him, closed it the moment she walked out of it, her face crumbling. 

Closed the door carefully, deliberately, though he wanted to fling it back open or wrench it from its hinges. Clicked the lock shut, because he knew she’d be listening. Waited for her footsteps to die before he let himself sink to the ground, his fist clenched in his mouth to cover up the sounds boiling out of him. Rocked himself back and forth on the floor, shaking in disbelief and horrified because she was everything that was good about him, and she’d left. Because he’d made her. 

But he’d had to. 

_ You had to,  _ the voice whispered, and it didn’t stop the shaking or the sobbing, but the ice had a cold comfort as it clenched around his heart.  _ You had to.  _

_ For her.  _


End file.
